


Heart On Your Sleeve

by Val_Creative



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Canon, Bickering, Canon - Book and TV Combination), Childhood, Dad Lord Asriel, Emotional Hurt, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Introspection, Jealousy, Lyra Knows Lord Asriel Is Lyra's Father, Lyra's World (His Dark Materials), Major Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21891568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Lyra spends most of her childhood narrowly avoiding responsibilities. When there’s guests visiting Jordan College however, she’s forced to dress up. Thankfully it’s someone Lyrawantsto see.
Relationships: Lord Asriel & Lyra Belacqua, Lord Asriel & Stelmaria, Lyra Belacqua & Pantalaimon
Comments: 18
Kudos: 96





	Heart On Your Sleeve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Russy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Russy/gifts).



> IT'S A REQUEST. YES,,, I AM APPARENTLY TAKING THEM. I got asked to do something with Lyra getting a flu/something like the flu,,,, and of course Asriel looks after her and there's cuddling. But that's only PART of the story. Ohohoho. WE LOVE DADRIEL. Thanks for reading and if you got any comments/thoughts, I would love to hear them! ❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎

*

Lyra spends most of her childhood narrowly avoiding responsibilities.

It can't always be helped. Such dreadful things keep her from playing and living freely… washing and bathing, dance lessons… or studying the hundred year old feud between Babylonia and southern Mesopotamia in a cramped, humid room upstairs.

She did nod off to the droning of a Scholar reciting from his leather-bound text yesterday. Her elbow upright. Lyra's hand propped under her chin. She jolted as a thin birch rod struck the top of her desk. Pantalaimon, as a wasp, flitted around her head in agitation.

The Librarian smiled neutrally with closed lips on her, his crested gecko resting to his lapel. He proceeded to walk the room. And even the Scholar himself looked as if _he_ had just woken up, straightening in his low, muskwood chair and pretending to cough. His voice raised an octave higher. The armadillo demon next to him uncurled from its ball with perplexity.

But that was _yesterday_ — and instead of studying, Lyra chases slow, fluffy doves off Magdalen Bridge at dawnlight, and chases Pantalaimon as a dove. Encourages him to try and communicate with them with no avail. (Daemons are simply _not_ animals.)

She happily waves to the rows of gyptian boats as they float, joining Ma Costa on hers below deck. Lyra's face burns with kisses, kisses and loads more kisses. Her skin tingles. Ma Costa fusses, touching her silver-ringed fingers to Lyra's cheek. She playfully squirms in Ma Costa's lily-white, tattooed arms, but Lyra doesn't want to escape her. Ma Costa has been a dear and loving mother figure to her ever since she learned the truth.

Being hugged against her side makes Lyra feel as if she's _wanted_.

Lyra listens to Ma Costa shout to Tony about burning the fried fish. Their hawks face each other, giving a scriech and puffing out their feathers. Garlic and spices and potatoes, all of that oven-warmth, wafting. Lyra's stomach rumbles when Billy Costa enters the boat's doorway with his father John Faa visiting. His crow soars above Billy's head.

Billy runs to his mother, gleefully wrapping his arms to her, digging his face into Ma Costa's other side until his glasses skew.

Ratter, as a brilliant red squirrel, peeks shyly out of Billy's shirt-collar to Pantalaimon who gazes out of Lyra's dress-overalls as a mouse.

Lyra sees out of the corner of her eye, still grasping tightly onto Ma Costa's forearm to her, as John Faa and her mother figure greet each other with a quick, chaste kiss. She wonders if anyone could love her so profoundly.

*

As soon as the gyptians pass the steep, widening street of St Aldates, Lyra climbs out, sneaking from the boat.

She disappears for hours, going all over, recruiting the kitchen and washbasin children from St Edmund's Hall and Wordsworth College to attack the clayburners' children for seizing Roger. Their grounds were hauntingly large. Full of kilns and dragline. Slick with mud and clay-water rushing over sluices and washing pits full of a thick ocher colour. Lyra could put her hand in the great hot cracks and feel around for bed-plates of drying and smoky silt. She doesn't this time, and grabs some filth of murky clay.

Heavy, wet slaps of mud fly about. Lyra finds herself drenched with all of the mess, grinning and hugging Roger so fiercely.

They win eventually, rushing after the clayburners' children hissing and rolling them onto the riverbanks.

Willow trees dot along the river's edge, their silvery under-leaves rustling. A rotted and warm odour lingers. Lyra picks the craggy, damp remnants of mud off her neck, saying farewell to the children and Roger as they escape into the streets.

*

It's one of the best days Lyra ever had.

She returns to Jordan College, high-spirited and strolling through the grass. Until Lyra glimpses the ever-fearsome Mrs. Lonsdale approach from the direction of the Pilgrims' Tower. The older woman hollers to her. She attempts to dart away, but Mrs. Lonsdale has anticipated this, latching her fingers briskly onto Lyra's lower arm. An iron-like grip.

Lyra hollers too, getting dragged off, clawing with halfhearted strength at Mrs. Lonsdale's fingers.

A cougar-form of Pantalaimon bristles. He's no match for the sheer growling presence of Mrs. Lonsdale's retriever daemon.

She decides on drastic measures, gnashing and biting at her own arm, and stops only when she's seen by Mrs. Lonsdale who thumps her harshly on the skull. Lyra's eyes prickle with tears. But fortunately, for the state of her intact arm and her caretaker's wits, Lyra finally surrenders.

*

No child such as herself would enjoy being primped and polished. Scrutinised for every flaw.

Lyra seethes quietly, buttoned up into a frilly, ribboned pink dress with the help of two of the kitchen girls and overseen by Mrs. Lonsdale herself. The kind she wore for esteemed guests visiting or when the Scholars came for dinnertime tea.

As soon as she's dressed properly… after every part of her has been scrubbed clean of the hideous, putrid mud… Lyra refuses to get up.

Mrs. Lonsdale pulls at her hands, chiding her, having the little girl stand and correcting her posture before Lyra flops onto her bottom sullenly, repeating this.

In a gently exasperated tone, Mrs. Lonsdale informs her that Lyra's uncle — _no_ , she corrects herself, rolling her eyes — Lyra's _father_ , Lord Asriel Belacqua waits in Dr Carne's tearoom along with the other guests. And if Lyra doesn't _hurry_ herself there, she will be rightly chastised for it by both her father and Dr Carne himself.

Her pulse quickens. A flood of warm, delighted anticipation fills Lyra.

She scrambles for the door, kneeling up and nearly tripping over her hem as Mrs. Lonsdale smirks triumphantly, patting a hand to the girl's upper back. Lyra's cheeks brighten on their surface to match her pink, satinette dress with its fitted sleeves and sacks of tulle beneath the ruffles.

*

Chapel-bells ring, sounding out from tower-alcoves. Lyra scurries towards her destination, breathing in deeply, combing and tossing back her dark hair. She might not look right, or feel as confident or pleased with herself as usual, but…

"Does it look nice?" Lyra asks, tapping over the jade-green brooch pinned to the pale pink ribbon fastened to her neck.

Pantalaimon, tiny and covered in white-silver fur, stoops over on Lyra's right shoulder, examining the item with his clawed paw. "Yes, of course," he says, staring up and blinking his ermine eyes. "Don't be such a worrywart, Lyra."

Lyra's brows furrow. "I'm _not_ a worrywart. That's your job."

When her daemon chuckles, the ends of Lyra's mouth twitch up.

"We haven't seen Lord Asriel in a long time."

"Two years isn't long," Lyra replies, pretending to be dismissive. Pantalaimon lets out a snort.

"He didn't send you any post for eight months and you almost sent him back a parcel of fresh cow dung."

At this, Lyra scoffs, tossing back her dark brown, short hair once more. Her face brightens again.

"Don't be ridiculous," she murmurs, embarrassed to be reminded of this.

Lyra _wouldn't_ have. She only _thought_ about it.

*

From the entryway, Lyra notices him immediately with a thrum of unspoken eagerness.

Her view of Lord Asriel becomes obscured by Scholars and visitors dressed in silks and finery, as they walk by.

He's wearing a suit made of dark navy wool, narrowing down and slim on his waist. Dark navy trousers. A pair of glossy, brown shoes. Lyra doesn't remember a time where he w _asn't_ without his old, leathered jacket or a sweater-vest. Lord Asriel's mane seems finely combed back and oiled. Those sleek greying hairs near his forehead and on his temples illuminate under the gaslights. Lord Asriel's snow leopard daemon, powerfully built and alert, remains seated by him.

All of that heat settles into her breastbone. Lyra imagines for a moment kissing him as a greeting. His beard has been shaven off, leaving pale skin and handsomely sculpted cheekbones. (Wouldn't that be alright? Aren't they family after all?)

That's when Lyra notices the exquisite, young woman speaking with her father.

(Is she… one of the female Scholars?)

The woman leans towards him, puckering her rouged lips slightly as he converses with her and offers an informal smile. Her robin daemon flutters gracefully, high above the woman's head and then over Lord Asriel's daemon. Stelmaria eyes the creature, growling with intrigue and a ravenous nature. Lyra feels all of the heat inside her bleed out.

"Roger, who is that?" she mumbles.

He hums in confusion, walking towards her. They both gaze towards this full-figured woman with strawflower hair and angular, copper-gold eyes. She has a pearlscent headscarf and matching jacket-dress and Lyra _isn't_ so sure she's a Scholar anymore.

"Dunno." Roger lugs a pouring jug of water, shrugging and moving on. "I think she came with Lord Asriel."

This somehow ignites a far colder, burning emotion.

"Lyra, _don't_ —" Pantalaimon says, groaning in her ear as an insect.

She bats him away with a hand, retrieving a handful of teacakes off of one of the platters left out. Lyra hunches into one of the armchairs, glaring in the woman and Lord Asriel. She flings bits of squished, crumbled biscuit, straining her fingers rosy-pink from the icing. Aiming deliberately for the woman.

One or two of the guests spot her, laughing.

The women eventually notices those guests, looking around to Lyra who stares into her eyes with the nastiest, hateful look she can muster. She has the nerve to be _amused_ by Lyra, giving a pretty, brilliantly white smile and a hand-wave. Her robin daemon twitters as if giggling. Stelmaria makes eye-contact with Lyra, rumbling inquisitively, but Lord Asriel appears to be turning away from everyone, his jaw clenched as he sips his flute-glass of white wine.

_That's it._

Lyra stands up abruptly, going forward. All she wants to do is knock that smile off her—

Pantalaimon buzzes a warning too late, as she collides into the Sub-Rector, knocking his hot tea out of his wrinkled hands.

"Lyra!" the Master roars out, having witnessed the incident. His raven daemon caws out indignantly. She can't even bring herself to apologise. Or feel humiliated. Lyra's too mad at the Master for calling attention to her, at the woman, at Lord Asriel. At herself.

Her father shifts himself, his bright blue eyes on her. He's moving suddenly, faster than Lyra expects, prowling through the crowd with Stelmaria and capturing her wrist. Lyra protests, getting tugged out within moments. "Let go of me! Let go of me, _LET GO_ —!" she screeches, ignoring Pantalaimon nipping at her ear and telling her to calm down.

In the shadowy, stonework corridor, Lyra feels herself flung aside. She rubs her wrist and bestows Lord Asriel with a frown.

"Your behavior has been atrocious," Lord Asriel says, teeming with frustration. "You've been disrespectful and mean-spirited… you will go back in there and apologise to the Sub-Rector. You will apologise to the Master and to the other guests."

" _No_ ," Lyra snarls.

"This is not a request."

"I don't _want to_."

"Then you'll be spending the rest of evening with Mrs. Lonsdale improving your stitchwork. She says it's ghastly."

She fumes, seeing no trace of benevolence on Lord Asriel's expression. "You're _INFURIATING_!"

"And why is that?"

"You're always _GONE_! And when you're here—if someone _ELSE_ wants you—then I _DON'T_ exist to you—!"

Lord Asriel makes an outraged noise. "Don't be ridiculous."

It's her own words spitting back at her, her own lies — Lyra feels so angry that her hands curl into fists. She quivers, her features crumpling and tear-stained. "Why don't you _MARRY_ her and then I won't _EVER_ have to see you again! _EVER_!"

Lyra wipes under her eyes furiously, spinning around and running. Running as fast she can.

*

A twinge of something hits him. Non-physical _pain_.

Lord Asriel's mouth slips open during Lyra's sobbing, fiery outburst, but she's already retreated.

"Lyra!" he manages, booming but his voice strained. " _LYRA_!" But there's nothing to be done, and Lord Asriel groans softly, warily. His hands cup together, pushing over his face and dragging hard. "That child—"

"She wasn't wrong," Stelmaria murmurs. Her tail flicking. "You didn't speak to her when she came in."

A vehement stare.

_"I needed to—"_

"She noticed how Madame Douglas was being held to her every word. Lyra did not know of your intentions or plan to secure Madame Douglas's finances." She snuffles, hunching back. All of her muscular physique taut from Lord Asriel's uneasiness and her own. "The truth of it is Lyra only saw her father paying another woman more regard than his own daughter."

" _SHE_ —" Lord Asriel hesitates, gesturing frustrated. He can practically feel Stelmaria's judgement. "She's a brat."

"You're acting no better."

A huffing and reluctant noise. Stelmaria watches him reluctantly process this, nudging her silvery-and-black head to his hip for encouragement. She purrs, much more content, as Lord Asriel's blunt fingernails scratch behind her ears.

*

Her hand-shadows tremble on the wall.

Lyra can barely hold her own arms up, panting out with effort. She gives up, dropping her hands and letting them flop uselessly. The white, radiant sunshine billows in, making Lyra's head ache the longer she gazes.

They've confined her. Lyra would go through her window, but her entire body feels… _wrong_.

She's now one of the few at Jordan College with a severe and complicated ailment passed from Dr Carne's gathering. A visitor carried and spread it, the Physician informs her. It's not likely to be deadly to her, but she should allow time to recuperate.

Lyra doesn't enjoy the silence. She mopes, going over her last encounter with her father. Not outside the tearoom, but the following day, Lord Asriel and Lyra got into an argument where she fainted in the middle of it. Lyra woke in the gallery-floor of the Lodge Tower, cradled securely to Lord Asriel due to his right arm holding her. Three of the brick-masons nearly panicked, asking if she was well — and that's when Lyra slowly fainted again, hearing Lord Asriel's deep, rumbling words.

She doesn't want to fight him.

_She just wants him HERE—_

The doorjamb rattles. Lyra squints her eyes, wincing.

Lord Asriel steps in, with his snow leopard daemon leading the way. He's left in the stonewash-dark turtleneck Lyra recalls from earlier. Stelmaria pads to Pantalaimon in his ermine form, lazily on his back, near the cot's end. She noses him impatiently.

"I thought the Master said I couldn't have any visitors—" Lyra says, weakly forcing herself sideways.

"Unlike yourself, the Master of Jordan College has no authority over me," Lord Asriel declares. "I go and stay as I please."

Lyra releases a brooding, whining sound, trying to push herself up.

Lord Asriel's hands clasp onto her, gingerly lifting her into a sit. It doesn't feel stable still. She grips onto his forearm, coughing, sniffling loudly. "That's not fair," Lyra mumbles, already red-faced from the effort.

He doesn't complain, pulling out a handkerchief. It smells laundered and like her father's cologne against Lyra's nostrils.

"You will understand when you are older. And when you are older, you will have the full command of your household by name and by right." A glimmer of pride lapses through Lord Asriel's blue eyes. "I'll make sure of it. No one, not even the Magisterium itself, will be able to tell you what you can and cannot do as a Belacqua. Or who you can be."

"Even when you visit?" Lyra points out, finally smiling. Her father's lips quirk.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves… "

He urges her to scoot, taking up most of Lyra's bed by stretching out his legs. Drowsiness sets in. Lyra rests her head against him, huddled up in the crook of Lord Asriel's arm draping round her.

"I don't want to… read…" she complains, eyeing his book with reservations.

"You're not going to be reading. I am." Her father presents it, opening up to the index. The crimson-and-gilded binding aged. Lyra thins her mouth. "I doubt you would know this, but you were read this book before. You were very young."

_Very sick._

What she doesn't know is, years and years ago, Lord Asriel memorised this specific volume of experimental theology. He dismissed Ma Costa for evening, unable to take much more of her lamenting and coddling a whimpering, frail Lyra anymore.

He stayed up himself. Exhaustion crept in from his council meetings with Parliament to defeat the Watercourse Bill in favour of the gyptian people. Lord Asriel relied on his increasing and frantic concern for Lyra, to keep himself vigilant, observing her hoarse, shallow breathing. He read to his infant daughter, for hours and hours, to convince himself that she would _recover_.

That if Lyra _heard_ her father's voice… it would keep her from death. That if by some unspeakably _cruel_ twist of fate… his daughter would, in her final moments, hear him… and know in some small way… that he loved her _profoundly_ …

Be it fear management or superstition, or purely habit, Lord Asriel begins to read. His fingers smooth over Lyra's upper arm, gently circling.

Lyra dozes off, and she _knows_. She's always known in some small way.

*


End file.
